NORTH WALES IN THE FIFTIES
pavements are damp
people like towels brought in
off wet dripping lines
or as ducks flapping in packamacs,
windows defy gaze under blinds
crying tears with their wares.
Mr. Protheroe stares out from his outfitters
at the rain running away with itself.
Damp slate answers back a sky
hewn from hills.
There are buses due, themselves
havens of damp, Cerrig y Drudion
is out there under mythical cloud
as the ten twenty from Penrhyndeudraeth
shimmers. Ab - Gwilym in charge of tickets
with his braced legs in black and machine
bore da to Mrs Williams.
guest houses are low slung behind lace
no disgrace, names hyphenated,
Chapel breath is strong
lasting weeks at a time
and still comes the rain.